


The Heart Out of You

by apliddell



Series: A Chemical Defect [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adultery, M/M, mid-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:26:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2242416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell





	The Heart Out of You

I trip up the stairs home (221B Baker Street!) with a carrier bag over my arm, feeling quite pleased with myself. Got a Christmas present for Sherlock today. Nothing much, only a new scarf. We ruined his old one saving that guard (his fingers under mine) (“The only feature of interest…”). And I can hear music floating down the stairs as I come up. And maybe he’ll smile at me when I come in. And maybe he’ll eat the dinner I cook for him. And maybe we’ll have a tiny bit of sort of okay in all of this horror.

“All right, Sh-” the words shrivel up as I come through the door into the flat.

“Afternoon, Doctor Watson.” Jim Moriarty is sat in Sherlock's chair, his feet propped near the large fire he’s laid in the fireplace.

“Where is he?” my voice is so soft, I can scarcely hear myself over the blood in my ears.

Moriarty tuts and shakes his head, “Lover-boy’s kept me waiting all afternoon. Terribly rude. Probably out doing what you’re doing,” he lifts a hand and gestures to my carrier bag, he’s got two fingers of it tucked into a book. It’s a volume of Poe I gave to Sherlock while he was in hospital. I feel a bit queasy watching him handle it. Moriarty sees my eyes on the book and grins. “Nearly got all the way through this, waiting. Bad manners, such bad manners, but,” he dogears a page in the book and sets it on the side table as if he’ll be coming back to it in a bit. “I’ll soon teach him some better.”

I drop the carrier bag. Since Sherlock isn’t here, this could be all right, actually (well sort of)(I’ve stumbled into a universe where “all right” is about the same as “utterly fucked” but that’s all right so long as it’s for me, and not for him). Here’s an unblown-in head that ought to be blown in, and me just the man to do it. He can’t be back. He can’t. Sherlock left me to get rid of him, and he can’t be back. I won’t let him be. The door is still ajar behind me. Step backward, shut it, and lock it. Moriarty laughs when he sees that. I don’t take any notice. My gun is in the desk, and I start to edge toward it.

Moriarty bounces his eyebrows and licks his lips, “You’re thinking of killing me, aren’t you? God, you two are sweet together, even when you’re not together. I’d nearly forgotten.” He shuts his eyes and presses a hand briefly to his heart. “You-know-who did go and get a bit unprofessional, but even that’s shaking out so beautifully; I can’t stay cross with her.”

Stop dead when he says that. “You-know-who?”

“Well, I do, don’t I? Obviously. I know everything. Do you?” His eyes pop open, bright and joyful, and he beams at me in wild delight, “Ohhh!” he breathes, fluttering his eyelashes ecstatically, “You don’t, do you? You really don’t know? Oh god, I wish he was here! Damn. Comes of dropping in uninvited, I suppose. Maybe I’ll save it up and make him tell you himself. It would be soooo funny. Might take a bit to beat it out of him, though,” he lowers his voice to a flirtatious husk. “The stamina on him. You’ll know all about that, won’t you, John?” He winks at me, and my chilled blood is suddenly boiling to steam.  
I’m at the desk nearly before I know what I’m about. Moriarty heaves a disappointed sigh and rolls his eyes, as I open a top drawer and begin shoving about the contents, looking for my lockbox. “Well don’t bloody rush me. Or you’ll never find out anything good, will you? He isn’t going to tell you, unless I make him. He never tells you anything, does he? And she certainly isn’t going to tell you. That’s how you wound up here, isn’t it? Back in the lovenest.”

Slam the drawer shut and wrench open another. “Shut up.”

“Oh, I could shut up, and you’d love shutting me up, wouldn’t you? I’d swear that gun was already in your pocket, if you weren’t rooting around for it. But shutting me up wouldn’t undo anything, would it, John Hamish Watson? The cuckoo’s been and gone, hasn’t she?”

“Cuckoo?” The question pops out before I can bite it back.

“They steal nests, idiot. You’re fun to watch, but you’re dull as dirt to talk to. I wish our boyfriend would get home.”

“Sherlock isn’t-” I cut myself off when I lay hands on my lockbox. Fling it open and pull out my gun.

“Good, good. Very good! God, I wish he’d heard that.” Moriarty leans forward in Sherlock’s chair now and clasps his hands under his chin. “This is lovely. Only I’ve got a question for you, John Hamish,” he pauses to run his tongue along his lower lip again. I cock my gun, and he shuts his eyes and grins. “Why is it that you’ve got a gun on me and there isn’t a laser sight on your chest, John? Mmm? Where’s my favourite sniper?” He’s breathing hard with excitement now. I raise the gun and point it into his face. He’s just there. Just there. No way to miss. “Did you notice when the trouble started? She didn’t mind you loving him, did she? But him loving you? Ohhh, that was a problem. She wanted to be the one and only lover of John Watson. Bit self important, but I suppose that’s the company she keeps,” he presses a hand to his heart again. “Touching, really. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Yes, my girl wanted to be the one and only who saw what you really were, John Hamish. Bit like me and him, I don’t mind saying. I go a bit soppy over him; that’s an open secret. But she’s got a temper on her that I haven’t got, if you don’t mind me toodling my own horn. However naughty he got with you, I didn’t bloody shoot him for it. Nor you.” He opens his eyes again just so that he can roll them. “Crimes of passion are sooo gauche, don’t you think, John? Common. He always hated them, didn’t he? He must be so embarrassed to be in the middle of your little domestic.”

“Shut up!” He’s just there. No way to miss. My hand is steady. So steady.

“Oh all right then.” He sighs reluctantly. “Say before I go, one last treat? Her real name is A-” I fire, and I have a moment to watch Moriarty’s laughing face disintegrate into dust before I wake on the sofa in 221B, swallowing a scream and sweating through my pyjamas.

I kick off the bedding and cock an ear toward Sherlock’s bedroom, trying to listen for him over the thumping of my heart. Is my throat hoarse from screaming or thirst? Strain hard for a moment, but it’s all still and silent. The flat is completely peaceful. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Except that a week tomorrow, it’ll be Christmas Day. And I’ll have to go to my lying wife and hold her and kiss her and tell her that I love her. That all is forgiven. That I’m going to look after her for the rest of my life. Because we do it his way. Always his way.


End file.
